1966 porsche 911


Porsche 911 Roadster, 1966, by Bertone. Introduced at the 1966 Geneva Motor Show having been commissioned by a US Porsche dealer with a view to making a limited production model for the American market. The Bertone 911 filled a gap in the then new 911 range for a full convertible. However Porsche vetoed the idea and the Bertone roadster remained a one-off

Girl With Hunter Tattoos


Relta looked up from her notebook, wondering what the librarian wanted from her. She was writing down notes on what she learned about demons, and being interrupted was an annoyance. Usually, she wore earbuds and played music to make sure people got the message of ‘stay away’. Blaring Metallica or Blue Oyster Cult – anything rock and roll. “The library is closing in five minutes,” the librarian told her, giving the robotic smile many staff members gave when having dealt with obnoxious teenagers for endless hours. Relta smiled back, beginning to back up her stuff, making sure her knife was out of view. “Thank you for giving me the heads up. I’d have ended up being here through the night if you hadn’t told me,” she gave a soft laugh, hoping to get the librarian to be less stiff.

After leaving the library, her heavy backpack slung over one shoulder, she headed toward the senior parking lot. On Fridays, the school library closed at 3 o’clock, so some seniors hung out in the parking lot. Rolling her eyes at their laziness, Relta headed to her navy 1966 Porsche 911. Her peers generally had Jeeps, or other large, environment hating vehicles. She’d had hers altered, to be more eco-friendly despite its age. Relta and her little sister had a sort of trust fund, from parents neither of them had ever met. At times, she felt like Bruce Wayne – rich with no parents. Granted, she didn’t believe her parents were dead but it may have been denial.

Starting up the car and beginning to leave the parking lot, Relta nearly hit someone – quickly realizing it was the new kid. Drake or Dean…something that started with a D. She put her blinkers on and got out of the car and walked over to him. “Are you okay? Standing in the middle of the road isn’t the best idea,” Relta said, giving Dean the once over to make sure she hadn’t actually hit him. What she did notice was the edge of a tattoo peeking out of Dean’s shirt. It was familiar, matching the one she had as a ‘tramp stamp’. “Son of a bitch,” she whispered.